[To be a hero was to be a living ideal. A hero's thoughts could only be focused outwardly at all times. Others before himself. The right thing over the easy or even the desired thing. Heroes didn't often have friends, and if they did it certainly wasn't for long.]

[But that was alright. Setanta mac Sualtam had known when he left home at the age of seven that it wouldn't be simple. All he desired was as simple as eternal fame and the protection of his beloved country--everything else was ultimately incidental.]

[As he got older, the child from Muirthemne Plain ended up saying many farewells over his lifetime; and through it all he smiled the best that he could. Because even as a child he'd known knights didn't cry. Heroes were untouchable, undefeatable, unbreakable. Even if a hero should part from all those he was sworn to protect, that was fine as long as what he protected was left unharmed.]

[Even though that was fine with him...it was nevertheless a tremendous strain for any one human or demigod to put on their heart. For one so naturally amicable and charismatic to forever separate himself from those he cared for was painful no matter what the reason was.]

[And if one was to ask that knight what parting hurt the most, and if that knight were to answer honestly...it would be the loss of his only son that carved the most permanent of scars into his heart. Even though he dedicated his life to the protection of his country, the fact remained that the one selfish desire of Cu Chulainn was the wish for a family. The loss of his son by his own hand due to a misunderstanding had nearly broken him, and even now it remained one on a list of mistakes spanning a lifetime.]

[video]

[The hovering camera focused on the back of a figure in black, dark blue hair swaying faintly in the occasional breeze as he walked about five feet in front of the camera. He stood straight and proud as ever; his current emotions aside, he would never allow himself to appear any other way.]

[The concerned buzzing of a Venomoth and the beat of its wings the only indicator of who held the Pokegear, anyone fluent in its language might have been able to tell the insect was saying 'Something's wrong.']

[And of course something was wrong; Lancer seemingly refused to face the camera, assuming he knew it was on.]

Fragarach. Turn that off--knew I shouldn't have told you how to use it.

[And thirdly, there was no emotion in his voice. Bright, cheerful, charismatic Lancer spoke in a near-total deadpan tone. When the Venomoth buzzed in response, Lancer sighed. Hands in his pockets, he still refused to look back at Fragarach and the camera she held. But when he spoke again, it was a little louder--as if Lancer was adressing someone watching rather than his Venomoth.]

What did I tell you, kid? [Calm, dismissive. The flat tone had faded somewhat, the former Servant's voice steady as ever with an added note of 'I told you so'.]

[He stopped walking, standing tall on an empty road. Aside from the Venomoth holding the camera, Servant Lancer was completely alone on the route he currently walked. No Olldóiteán, no Liath Macha or Dub Sainglend...and no sign of Connla.]

[He had always expected this day to come. How many had Cu Chulainn lost? His brother Ferdiad, dead by Lancer's own hand. Scathach, the teacher that had been so dear to his heart, separated from the mortal world and doomed to a fate unknown to him. His dearest and only love Emer, dead for at least two milennia now.]

[And now his only son, lost to him once through a misunderstanding and Lancer's own blade...now surely lost forever through no more than the whim of an extradimensional reality.]

Good luck never lasts.

[Johto had been as good as paradise to him and better. So if he was to continue losing all that mattered...that was fine. Even though it ached more than his own lance had when it cut through his heart, it was alright. Servant Lancer would simply go back to doing what he always had, and be a guard against whoever or whatever would threaten this place that was to be his homeland. So that those who were happy in this place could stay that way.]

[The Hound of Ulster would remain a proud Knight of the Red Branch until such time when this place would send him to his third and final end.]